


Under the midday sun

by clokkerfoot



Category: The Great Gatsby (2013)
Genre: (it's more the language used than actual prejudice), F. Scott Fitzgerald is turning in his grave, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, Kissing, M/M, Original Character(s), POV First Person, Period-Typical Homophobia, Period-Typical Racism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-22
Updated: 2016-05-22
Packaged: 2018-06-10 02:26:48
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,722
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6934489
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/clokkerfoot/pseuds/clokkerfoot
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Both Myrtle and George are killed in the Valley of Ashes. Gatsby survives and hosts a party, Daisy and Tom flee without notice, and Nick is rather caught up in the middle of it all.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Under the midday sun

Through some rare twist of fate, Myrtle Wilson was not the only person on the road on that fateful evening. George, the mechanic Tom privately despised and eluded so expertly, followed his wife out into the dust. Even Gatsby could not have avoided the disaster that followed, could not have prevented the spilling of blood and ending of life that transpired under the watchful eye of Dr. T.J. Eckleburg, and Daisy was a far less careful driver than he.

My cousin, as flighty and free as ever in spite of what she had done, was taken away by Tom within hours of the accident. They slipped away in the early glow of the morning, silently, and I watched as their taxi cab pulled out of the drive and disappeared into the night. Their home and possessions were abandoned, intact. It appeared that they had vanished. Authorities would undoubtedly question every inhabitant of East Egg and the more illustrious inhabitants of West Egg when the weekend was over and the tale of events unfolded, but I knew that not a soul knew why or cared to say where the Buchanans had fled.

Some other miraculous twist of fate meant that Gatsby’s yellow car had not been identified at the scene, had not stopped in the centre of the road following the collision, and a quick fix-up from Gatsby’s personal mechanic hid the evidence before even a single whisper of the deaths in the Valley of Ashes could reach his front door. Gatsby hosted one of his sparkling parties only a day after the catastrophe—at my insistence, if nothing else—and he hid his involvement behind hastily acquired wine and fine foods, and guests flooded from all ends of the city, anxious to return to his famous home.

I had never been one of the more enthusiastic houseguests to Gatsby’s parties, but on this night I danced and drank and spilled kisses across his lawns until the sun rose. Men and women of all colors and proclivities distracted me from my vicarious guilt, and as dawn broke I dozed in the arms of a gentleman called Raymond whose skin resembled a milked cup of coffee. Several mollys were sprawled across the grass beside me, their glistening dresses pulled halfway up their thighs and their accessories discarded.

I was not clear on the why or the how, but I had lost my suit trousers and shoes towards the middle of the night. The summer air was warm even as autumn crept ever nearer and the thermometer plummeted, so I did not search for my lower clothes. I found it easier to lie half-bared in the arms of a man than to get up and walk. Our conversation was stilted, but in a manner that was still somehow comfortable, and I learned was from East Egg—a fact I found hard to believe considering the color of his skin—and his mother worked in the printing industry under a colored man who would one day become her husband. Their joined wealth in the coming years was enough to move them to East Egg, regardless of the prejudices that surrounded a couple of mixed race.

Raymond continued to talk for what felt like hours, his dulcet tones almost music to my ears. I had listened to the complaints of the born-rich for far too long, for almost my entire summer. It was a rare indulgence to listen to the beaten down and the once-poor. Queer coloreds were some of the most hated individuals in modern society, but I found it unusually therapeutic to spend my time with them.

Eventually, when the blinding sun began to hurt my eyes, I remembered Gatsby. When I rose, intent on finding Gatsby before he did something irrational, the closest molly to me, a gentle woman with dark skin and darker hair, touched her soft hand to my bared ankle.

“Nick, stay,” she purred, her voice almost as low as her friend’s mouth against the impossibly pale column of her throat, “That Gatsby man doesn’t doesn’t need you. We and Raymond need you, darling.”

She waved one manicured hand towards the man I had been wrapped in for the last hour and he smiled at me, as though spending hours with queers was a most regular event in his life. I shook my head and gave my regards to all of them, then gathered my suit jacket and walked across the lawn. The women, the mollys who were still enamoured with one another, cooed and called after me as I staggered up the grassy bankings. I did not look back.

The house was in no more a state of disarray than what I had come to expect. Gatsby’s men were already making the rounds, collecting glasses and leftover platters of food. I strolled the halls, avoiding piles of writhing naked drunkards and puddles of vomit and one naked man who was splayed on his back across the middle of the hallway with an impressively tumescent penis considering his state. His name was Kelly, I recalled, and he waved absently at me as I stepped over one of his outstretched arms.

I found Gatsby knelt on the floor in one of the empty rooms towards the back of the house, frantically preparing himself for departure. His hands were buried in a mound of linen, bespoke shirts and pants and ties from a hundred countries and different worlds swathing him in a rainbow of wealth and unnecessary personal chattels. Gatsby had sourced his prosperity in his love for Daisy, had been driven to his affluence by the same obsessive greed that kept his heart tied to one who did not love him. I supposed that Gatsby found Daisy’s love in the items he used to decorate his home, perhaps even in the old Owl Eyes who served as a permanent ornament. Opulence was a way of life for the Buchanans, but for Gatsby it was a shallow escape.

Once I found him, I stood in the doorway for a beat, watching him work. After a while I said his name, and he turned to look at me with achingly sad eyes. He used that ridiculous _old sport_ sobriquet to refer to me and I was reminded of how I had spent a fair portion of my evening complaining that Gatsby had not once used my true name since we first met.

Perhaps I was still merry from the alcohol I had consumed, but Gatsby appeared to have been crying. He did not strike me as a publicly emotional man, yet I supposed I had intruded on his privacy.

“Are you quite alright?” he asked, as though _I_ was the one wailing into a salmon-pink silk shirt, not him. The drapes were drawn across the windows in the room, and it occurred to me that he had likely not realised dawn had broken; his parties ended at all manners of times, so the volume of guests alone would not have indicated the late hour to him. He blinked deliberately twice, then sat back on the heels of his dress shoes. “Is the party a success?”

I stared at him for a moment. “Why, Jay, the party’s over. The sun is up.”

“Oh.” Gatsby said, dumbly. He turned back to his linens and carded his hands through the smooth folds of a particularly bright yellow piece. I caught sight of a Charles William label before he lowered the garment back to the mound of clothing. I had seen him dress in both fashionably and unfashionably vivid colors in the past few months but I knew that the vast majority of the clothing in his wardrobe had never left the hangers.

Gatsby continued to sift through the shirts. His goal was not entirely clear, but there was an open suitcase resting on the floor beside him with several simply-patterned articles inside it. His present attire hardly suggested he planned to travel as he was still in his neat evening wear from the party, yet he looked as though he were inclined to bolt for the train station at any given second.

“Where are you headed?” I asked. Gatsby froze, as if I had discovered some great secret rather than merely put two and two together. He shrugged his shoulders, not turning to look at me or pausing his work. I walked around to his side and knelt beside him on the hardwood floor.

My knees felt cold against the ground, and Gatsby must have finally noticed my particular state of lower undress as he exclaimed “Di mi!” in an affronted tone of voice. He rose from the ground and stomped somewhat like a miffed child over to a closet, from which he pulled a simple pair of slacks. He handed them to me with a peculiar flush on his cheeks, and although I knew they wouldn’t fit me one bit for Gatsby had three or four inches on my height and had his suits _tailored_ , I turned my back on him and pulled the slacks on.

They didn’t fit, as I expected, and the hem dragged on the floor behind my heel. Gatsby nodded once I was dressed and facing him again, then dropped back to the floor in front of me. For an entirely obscene reason, Gatsby on his knees was a sight that elicited a feeling within my gut not unlike that of drinking champagne. He continued to sort the clothing, disregarding my presence almost completely, but I was used to that; much like Daisy, material possessions distracted Gatsby to the point he could hardly continue a conversation, and I often served as a backdrop to his affections. Some hot and unreasonable voice in the back of my mind demanded that he pay such devoted attention to _me_ , but I knew that such a wish or request was completely absurd.

Gatsby suddenly cried out and threw a white shirt against the far wall. I tutted and retrieved it. “What on earth has gotten into you?” He shook his head, refusing to answer. I handed him the shirt, and the silky material slid easily away from my fingertips and fluttered down into his waiting hand, almost like a dropped favor.

When he turned his attention back to his mound of colours, eyes downcast, I stepped in front of him and blocked his view of the clothes. He harrumphed, disgruntled, and sat back on his heels again, then looked up at me with his brilliant blue eyes. I almost buckled at the knees at his _wanton_ expression, of all things, but I proudly held my own.

“You can’t follow her forever.” I said. Gatsby needed to hear it from _someone_ , even someone he didn’t like very much. And, yes, while Gatsby had personally invited me to his home once upon a distant summer’s day, time had passed and he no longer held the same torch for me as he once had; I could see it in his eyes, in the way his body moved when he was in my vicinity, and it was as if he avoided as much of me as possible, from my gaze to my touch and everything in-between. A small part of me wondered if he was projecting some private anger towards Daisy onto me, as her cousin, but I doubted that very much. Daisy was the world to Gatsby, even now when she was no longer near him. I stared at Gatsby, forced him to hold my gaze. He frowned, and I said, “You _must_ let her go.”

“ _Must_ I?” Gatsby replied. There was malice in his tone, a mockery of my own insistence, but his eyes did not reflect the animosity behind his words. He looked sad and downright heartbroken if nothing else, and my own heart felt sad for the poor man.

And Gatsby had _tried_ to be good. He had tried to be good, both for his parents—no matter how oft he claimed he wished to have nothing to do with them—and for Daisy, but so many things in his life had failed him. The things he tried to be good for, especially, had failed him; his parents without the ambition that Gatsby so desperately desired, and Daisy with little love to spare.

I sighed and held out my hand. “Walk with me.”

Gatsby stared at me for a moment longer, than gripped my hand with his own and I pulled him to his feet. I led him out of the room he had holed himself up in and walked him through the hallways of his own home. Each individual we came across, I was familiar with. I told Gatsby their stories and introduced him as the man of the house, allowed them to converse and become acquainted, then moved Gatsby along. A small part of me hoped that he would gain some perspective, would see the individuals who flocked to his home and discover that there was a bright life to be lived outside of his Daisy Fay.

I introduced him first to James Finley, a banker from the city. Many months ago, he had lost his wife and two children to a fire. He had built himself a new world since then and had learned to live without the things he once considered as important and essential as water. Following a spell of unspoken depression, he rose from his endless agony and lived again.

Next, we conversed with Ruth Bentz-Butterfield. She, like Daisy, had married from old money into older money. She bore two names that held more money combined than Gatsby would ever see in his life and yet she was not happy; she _knew_ she was not happy and was not shy to vocalise it. She felt as though her life had little meaning without children and she was unable to carry. Gatsby started a little when Mrs Bentz-Butterfield mentioned a young girl she had seen scampering around East Egg, and I knew from his expression alone that it was Daisy’s young daughter she had seen.

Lastly, and most significantly, we spoke to Eugene Best. Gatsby recognised Mr Best from the papers, just as I had when I first met the man at one of Gatsby’s early parties, but Gatsby could not recall the tale of his infamy. I was more than familiar with his story but Mr Best wished to tell it himself.

“I was a bootlegger,” Mr Best admitted. “I worked for Wolfsheim, way back in the day. He got me in real good, wrapped me up in all kinds’a nasty shit, but I got maself out and did jus’ fine without him. ‘S’a real honor to meet you, Mr Gatsby. We all know about your work wiv Wolfsheim. You’re one’a the better ones, eh, sir? Done well for yaself?”

Gatsby stiffened, and refused to speak another word save for a farewell when I led him away. Gatsby’s bootlegging was never vocalised by him, but I was no simple fool and I knew where my friend’s wealth had come from. It must have been a more sensitive topic than I realised, as Gatsby’s mood declined rapidly; so, I led him outside for some fresh air rather than let him wander the dusty hallways for the rest of the day.

The sun was much higher in the sky now and we stepped out from warm hallways into warmer sunlight, the temperature shift inclining me to remove my jacket. I slung it over my arms, then led the way with Gatsby close in tow; a reversal of roles I couldn’t determine the cause of. Gatsby’s land was massive and impossibly expansive, but still we walked to my home as we always had and most likely always would. I was rather fond of my little cottage, tucked away in an unassuming corner of Gatsby’s world just as I was, and I welcomed its pretty bricked front when we wandered up to it.

“I suppose you’ll be retiring, then,” Gatsby said, but it was not a question. He nodded his head at me and my home, then turned on his heel and made the motions to leave my lawn.

“It’s not your fault,” I called before Gatsby could get too far away. Without thinking, I took a step towards him as he bore his retreat. He paused with stiff shoulders that indicated a great deal, but did not turn to face me. “You aren’t to blame for what Daisy did. You certainly aren’t to blame for her departure. I know it’s terrible now, but I promise you shall move past her. I promise you, Jay, that there is more to life than the affections of a pretty woman.”

When Gatsby said nothing, I took another step towards him. I had never deliberately involved myself in his pseudo-relationship with Daisy before, and the thrill of telling Gatsby what-was-what made me feel giddy.

“There is much more to live for,” I continued. Faintly, I was aware that I was talking to Gatsby as though he were likely to take his own life in a short while and I was trying to prevent the fact, but still I soldiered on. Gatsby did not deserve to live in Daisy’s shadow, just as she deserved not to live in his. “Why, countless guests attended your party last eve, last-minute. Surely that tells you how much you are wanted?”

Gatsby swallowed and I saw the motion rock his upper body. I stepped closer, until I could just smell the distinct flowery aftershave Gatsby soaked himself in. My confidence was growing with every breath I took, with every second that ticked by on the repaired clock on my mantle piece.

“Surely that tells you how much you are _needed_ , Jay?” I lifted my arm into the air and touched my hand to Gatsby’s shoulder. He stiffened beneath my fingertips, but did not move. “Following Daisy to the ends of the earth will never bring you happiness, I assure you. West Egg needs to you to stay, Jay. You have brought life back to this shattered peninsula. Joy. Beauty. All the wondrous things in the world.”

My friend shivered, as if he derived some great truth from my words.

“You have brought wonder back into my life,” I said, far more honestly than I expected; I started a little at my own mettle, but it did not stop the words dripping from my lips like honey. I said his name, as a reminder of who he had become, “Jay, you are the most beautiful man I have ever met, and I cannot bear to see you leave. Please don’t leave me.”

Towards the end my voice cracked a little, but it seemed to have the effect I desired. Gatsby turned to face me and I moved my hand with him, and I saw that the blues of his eyes appeared transparent in the dim lighting that came with the great limbs of the trees that encircled my home. His lips were parted, but not in a drunken and careless manner; more-so that he was _startled_ , profoundly and quite completely. I realised in that precise moment, hidden under the canopy of trees that had lived on the earth far longer than I had, that I could not live without Gatsby.

I had known him only a few months, hardly even a full summer, but I felt as though I had lived my entire life in just that time. We had doused ourselves in alcohol and women; had shared cigarettes and glasses of winking champagne; had shared lawns and loves and countless days on the dock and floated across the sound in a dozen different vessels; had travelled miles and miles in yellow and blue cars and wandered carelessly through city streets; had exchanged stories and tales and wishful thinking in the early hours of working days; all when I was too ignorant to realise that every second with Jay Gatsby was the greatest second of my life.

“Please don’t leave me.” I repeated. Gatsby must’ve heard the sincerity in my voice or seen it in my eyes, because he moved forward and pulled me into a tight embrace. My hand got rather caught between our shoulders, but I did not complain. He truly did smell of the aftershave I had seen him splash on his wrists and collar once or twice a day, but there was an earthy scent beneath all of that. I supposed that that was Gatsby’s true persona breaking through the illusion he had created, and I found myself not overly averse to it.

Gatsby pulled back from me after a moment, his face striped and mottled from the light bleeding through the canopy. He was smiling, albeit in a pitiful sort of way, and that same old distant voice in the back of my mind whispered that Gatsby was the love of my life. Not in a queer way, not in the same manner that led Raymond and the mollys to clump together on Gatsby’s front lawn with myself trapped in the middle of them, but in a manner that made my chest ache at the very thought of losing him.

Gatsby kissed me on the lips quite suddenly, startling me. But, no, that wasn’t queer either. It felt right to kiss Gatsby, as though it were nothing more than a handshake or a friendly embrace. I had kissed a friend before—Tom, once, following a particularly victorious win at football, and I had thought nothing of it. I vaguely wondered if it was perhaps of a homosexual inclination when I leaned in closer and allowed Gatsby to wrap himself around me; but then again Gatsby had constantly surprised me since the day I met him, and I was no closer to understanding how his fantastic mind worked.

Perhaps this was just how Gatsby and I were meant to be, tangled together and lip-locked on my front lawn with the distant noises of vacating party guests and the rushing of the courtesy bay water providing a beautiful backdrop almost as beautiful as Gatsby himself. Perhaps that was where I was meant to be, in Gatsby’s arms under the midday sun, finally _happy_.

No, no—that _was_ where I was meant to be. I was quite certain of it.

**Author's Note:**

> I've never written a first person fic before, so I hope it was alright! Thank you very much for reading <3
> 
> Find me on Tumblr [here](http://clokkerfoot.tumblr.com/).


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